


The Things We Do At Midnight

by fightingthecage



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Dubious Morality, F/M, Javert's Confused Boner, Loneliness, M/M, Madeleine Era, No One Is Honest, Pre-Slash, Sex, They Know Nothing Of Each Other, Toulon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 12:36:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightingthecage/pseuds/fightingthecage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert will do anything for justice. Anything. Madeleine lets him, for reasons Javert does not try to understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things We Do At Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> I. My run of crap summaries continues. My excuse with this one is that I don't know what it is. I want to call it pre-slash, even though the sex is already happening. Perhaps it will be clear why.
> 
> II. As ever, this is unbeta'd and almost entirely unedited. I wrote it this morning, I'm posting it now. Con crit always welcome.

 

 

 

 

The hands at his hips are gentle. He stares straight ahead, gaze unwavering, at some blank spot on the wall in front. Under his palms, the wood of the desk is smooth, unvarnished, plain but soft. The edges of paper nudge at his smallest finger; it is this, above all, that causes irritation but he does not move his hand away. Lips gentle over his skin above the edge of his leather stock, and leave a warm trail that rapidly turns cool. A face presses to the back of his neck, a small groan; then, his own silent intake of breath. He closes his eyes.

He used to dream of women. He is sure, when he was young, he used to dream of women.

 

*

A year before, he had attended Monsieur Madeleine to discuss the problems created for the town by the construction of the new schools. Madeleine had listened with his preoccupied air, had smiled instead of spoken, and ended the meeting with a sincere promise to better secure the sites of construction at night. Also to prevent the building workers blocking the pathways with their tools, which were a hazard, and their bodies, which were an inconvenience. He had left unsatisfied, the man’s demeanour being a cause of unease, and his face the quiet torment of an unresolved dilemma. Nevertheless, the instructions were carried out, and he had no choice but to be satisfied. That the man was a model citizen could not be denied by anyone but Javert, who made it a point to be suspicious of everyone until they proved themselves beyond reproach. No one knew this Monsieur Madeleine. No one knew where he came from. The man lived in solitude, was pious, and sober, and was known distinctly for his insistence on honourable behaviour. Even he, Javert, could not understand the murmurings of instinct which spoke against him.

And yet they did. And yet, he listened.

On a day at the start of 1820, Madeleine emerged from his house dressed entirely in black, with crape on his wide-brimmed hat. Javert observed this with little interest; it was only later that day, as he walked through the square, that mumblings came to his ears.

‘It is because of the Bishop in Digne. He is in mourning for him.’

‘Do you suppose he knew him?’

‘Such a good man…a relative, perhaps…’

Javert heard all, Javert saw all. He did not read newspapers unless a particular matter was brought to his attention, and matters of the priesthood were not his concern. It was all he heard on the affair; gossip concerning Madeleine’s heritage was of more interest to the drawing-room set in Montreuil sur Mer; the workers cared only for the way he eased their lives; the children for the money in his pocket, and the trifles constructed of straw and cocoanuts. Still, he did not forget. And when their paths crossed on the street after low Mass the following Sunday, he inclined his head politely enough.

‘Monsieur.’

‘Inspector. I wondered if I might see you this week. A matter regarding the factory.’

‘A police matter?’

‘I believe so. The mayor has brought it to my attention, and recommended I speak with you.’

‘Then I am at your disposal, Monsieur. You may speak now if you wish.’

‘It is Sunday, Inspector. Tomorrow will suffice for matters of business.’

‘Of course.’

Madeleine was unperturbed, exuded calm, looked sad. Javert observed the black clothes that were plain cloth, despite the town’s knowledge of his riches; his clean but well-worn boots; his smile, directed at everyone who passed and wished him good morning, and used in lieu of reply. _A still pond_ , he decided, as he had decided before. _Of black water, and unknowable depth_. But he would fathom those depths. The water was black for a reason.

‘You have suffered a loss,’ is what he said next.

‘Yes.’

‘The town has decided you were related to the Bishop at Digne.’

Madeleine smiled again, and placed his hat on his head. ‘It is not so. Good day, Inspector.’

‘Monsieur.’

He watched him walk away. He had not gone ten paces before children were swarming to him. He observed the large, worn hands that touched little heads, dispensed small coins and sweets; he saw the strength of the shoulders when the man kneeled to show a little girl how to tie straw into the likeness of man. In the back of his head, always, a name he had thought never to hear again.

 

*

 

The streets of Toulon were paved with rubbish; at least near the harbour, which is where he lived when he had reached the mature age of five, and his mother saw fit to find herself back in jail. This is what he thinks of when he finds himself in the mayor’s office, allowing himself to be compromised. The rubbish on the streets; flotsam on the cobbles and in the alleys, calling out for sous with wrinkled hands extended from filthy rags; the smell of rotted fish guts, the dead scales he would have to pick off his bare feet at night if he looked for food along the wharf. Fish scales are tenacious things. Why does he think of this? Perhaps anything is better than what is happening behind him, even though he allows it, even sought it. Not because it is something he desires. No. It is something the mayor desires.

Callused fingers grip his shoulder. One raises, and touches along the sweat on his neck. He remembers a girl, who could not have been much more than sixteen. He was fourteen and somewhere between lives, existing on a promise uttered by Monsieur Henri some months before, and the reality of fending for himself hour by hour. She was a housekeeper’s daughter, and helped at the orphanage he was now too old for; they let him stay sometimes, if he worked. He would haul coal and wood in the mornings, while she brought him milk and tried to understand the few words he spoke. When he scrubbed the enormous cauldron at night, nearly sick with exhaustion, she would put a slice of cold meat on a piece of bread, and hide it in her apron. If no one saw, she would slip it into his pocket. He would look at the rise of her breasts in her peasant’s dress, furtively, from under dark eyebrows that hid much, and imagine what they would feel like in his hand. He imagined her putting bread into his pocket and allowing her hand to linger; sometimes he thought he felt the press of fingers to his thigh when she did this thing, and would have to take some deep breaths in case he shamed himself in front of her. She smiled a lot. He did not, but she never seemed to mind. What was her name?

The edge of the desk digs into his thighs uncomfortably. He is always left with lines from these encounters, straight purple marks, one across each muscled leg as if he has been struck by a cane. He is pushed into the wood, and then jerked against it hard – never too hard, the mayor always tries to be kind – and he will not complain about discomfort. Considering the filth inside him, he is in no position to whine like a baby dog.

The mayor is gasping. It is faster now. Javert braces his arms, and keeps his gaze pinned to the wall. There is a hand tugging between his legs, fingers teasing over his leaking slit. What _was_ her name? He can never remember. But he remembers how the spectre of her kept him warm some nights, even when he was outside in winter; in his thoughts, she would lead him to the pantry and unlace the front of her dress. She would pull it apart, and let him see. Let him touch, sometimes. Occasionally, when his teenaged body insisted – more times than he is proud of – this ghost of a girl would lean back on the sacks of flour and potatoes, and lift her skirts. And he would not be skinny and starving, round-shouldered to take up less space in a world that hated him; he would be tall, and strong, and fit himself between her legs, and make her pretty face open in shock at the feel of him inside. Her breasts would be soft, and would bounce, and be beautiful, and she would say his name in a gentle whimper that held no tears.

He has finished. The evidence is plain enough on the rough hand that grips him. His arms ache from holding himself steady. He draws in a breath, still shuddering. The mayor labours away.  

He never used to let himself see her on the days after he had such thoughts. The danger of acting on such sordid desires was not lost on him, and he was always angry at himself for sinking so low. She was a housekeeper’s daughter. He should not look at her, let alone allow his body to dream such things. And besides, Henri would have organised affairs soon. He would be free of it all; her, himself, everything.

 

*

 

Madeleine liked to stroll in the fields. He carried a gun when he did this, though Javert had never seen him use it. He had heard that the man did not used to walk so much; always working, or giving his alms, or building his schools and making his money. Over a million had been spent on the town. It was known by all; an indisputable fact. And hundreds of thousands in a ready account at the bank. Javert did not approve of this being bandied about; the rich had a right for the poor not to know such things. But there; he could not stop it. And he could not help his irritation that he knew also, and was further disquieted by it – the man was respectable, he was rich. It was a fact. Except that respectable people held investments, and did not keep their entire fortune so easily to hand. They bought gold, and…he did not know what else. Land? Yes, probably land. But Madeleine did not. He built things, and then gave them to the town.

‘Another matter has arisen, Inspector. One more urgent than the factory.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Yes.’ They walked together, two respected men – not gentlemen – and the people parted before them. No children came. Javert knew it was because of him, and was satisfied. ‘One of my female workers was assaulted last night. She thinks by either a sailor, or a soldier.’

‘Well, which was it?’

‘She is not sure. She said it was dark.’

‘Ah.’ Well, it would be. ‘And where was this?’

‘At the harbour.’

‘A sailor, then.’

‘But on the side near the garrison.’

‘Ah.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You know that area is the favourite haunt of the ladies of the town, Monsieur.’

Madeleine’s tone was clipped for the first time in his hearing. ‘She is a respectable woman.’

‘Is she married?’

‘No. What does that have to do with anything?’

‘How long has she worked for you?’

‘A month, or thereabouts.’

‘So, not long enough to have yet benefitted from your renowned kindness.’

‘She has been paid weekly, Inspector. She is no more worse off than any other of my employees.’

Madeleine’s face retained its serenity. Javert regarded it from under his furrowed brow. ‘Do you still separate your workforce, Monsieur?’

‘Of course. I am strict about it, and no person seems to mind.’

‘They would not complain to your face, of course.’

Madeleine stopped, and turned to face him. There were few people on this street, the road leading out to the hills at the west. It was a cold day, clear and bright, with frost still clinging to the long grass in the hedgerows past the last houses. ‘Are you implying something, Inspector?’

‘I am saying that it would not be the first time a woman had two jobs, that is all.’

‘It is not the case here.’

‘Very well.’ They watched each other a moment. Javert looked around first. ‘If the guilty is a sailor or soldier, it is the affair of their officer in the first instance. I will inform the garrison, and put word to the ships in port. We will see what comes of it.’

Madeleine sighed, and nodded as though he did not expect more. ‘She _is_ respectable, Inspector.’

‘Then it shall be seen to.’

They watched each other a moment more, then returned to their even pace.

‘You are still wearing black.’

‘It is customary for mourning, is it not?’

‘Indeed.’ They made slow progress. Javert did not want to go wandering the fields. There was little to watch out there. ‘The rumour is now that you were a servant in the Bishop’s household when you were a boy.’

‘It is not a rumour. I have said it myself.’

‘You are from Digne, then?’

Madeleine raised his gun. Javert caught the movement in the field to their right a second later; a bird swooping in on a rabbit. He waited for the shot, but it never came. Madeleine seemed to hesitate for just a moment, and his eyes slid sideways. Then he lowered the weapon. ‘A bird must eat too,’ he said, and Javert cocked his eyebrows.

‘I must return to the town, Monsieur. I will see to the factory matter this afternoon.’

‘Thank you, Inspector.’

He did not return at once. He stood and watched the man walk on, into the green open spaces still scarred with winter snow.

 

*

 

The mayor is finished. Javert wonders what he thinks of to bring that final peak. It is not him, he is sure.

 

*

 

The bagne was the worst of places. It smelled as it should, with more than a thousand working men packed inside with their filth, and bodies, and grunts in the dark. The salt rotted everything; clothes, wood, skin; infection festered in the walls with the rats and the lice, making every lungful of air a potential game of chance with death. It was not only the convicts who lost the game. He saw many a guard falter under its gaze, and then fall silently to its grip. Javert walked the corridors, tall enough to feel the ceiling loom close to his head, his back finally straight, his stick solid in his hand. His father came from here. This was home. He felt it through his body, sinking into the meat of him, curling around his bones. There were no more childish thoughts of girls in peasant dresses, no more starvation and finding the corner of some alley to fold himself into at night. He had a bed, shared in a room with four others; he had a uniform; he had a Bible. The latter was largely unread, superseded by the laws of the land, and the rules of this godless place. But it was there, another badge of his righteousness. He stalked through the prison like a dog on its watch, circling the wolves with bared teeth. They backed down before him, even young as he was – and if they did not, they were soon put in their place. A stick, a whip. And the day someone struck him, the crushing weight of the law. He stood proudly at the execution, surveying the condemned from narrowed eyes with the bruise still there on his cheek. The shield of justice cloaked him, warmer than any blanket, any half-remembered dream of base satisfaction. Why would he ever need anything else? He was safe; he was whole. The bagne was the worst of places, but it was where he belonged.

 

*

 

Madeleine rarely smiles when they are finished. Before, it is evident; a shy thing weighted down by sadness. It is not so hard to see that the man knows he is wrong to want this thing, and despicable for asking it of him. But there; Javert cannot remember if he ever asked it of him. It is something that happened because he wanted to know what the man was hiding; whether it was this that kept him in solitude, and whether letting him have it might draw him out. He does not think he can remember how it came about, and it does not matter.

He pulls up his trousers, and fastens them without turning around. He will be impeccable before he faces him, just as when he turns, there will be no sign Madeleine ever exposed himself. They are two men – not gentlemen – alone in an office, that is all. They might have discussed business. He can almost imagine they did, if it were not for the tell-tale slide of liquid down the inside of his thighs. And tonight, the illusion is shattered further, because Madeleine kisses him. He has never done that before, and Javert is not sure what to do. He had thought them finished. But no, it seems they are not. The mayor’s lips are soft, his tongue a gentle stroking thing against his lower lip. He allows it; perhaps responds in kind. He is not sure.

‘I apologise,’ Madeleine says. It is a quiet breath across his mouth. ‘A whim.’

‘It is of no importance, Monsieur le Maire.’

The man turns away, and picks up a lonely piece of paper that had fallen. ‘Of course not.’

 

*

 

Perhaps this was how it happened. A meeting about the factory, which turned to a discussion about the assaulted girl and her attacker. A discussion that got heated, and necessitated further talk. There was certainly a meeting with the girl, in the presence of her father and Madeleine too, even though he was not yet mayor. She had cried, that is true. He had gone to the barracks, because he believed her innocence eventually. What innocence she had left. He had found the ships that remained in the port too, the ones that had been there that night. Eventually, a lamb was thrown to the wolves; a half-wit who could not seem to say whether he was ashore that night, or whether he had stayed in his hammock. His lack of memory suggested guilt, or alcohol, or a lack of understanding of right and wrong. It was enough. She thought it might have been him, though her father was more insistent than she. The man went to Toulon, and that was it.

‘Are you sure it was the right man, Javert?’ he was asked, some evening afterwards.

‘Yes. He admitted it in the end.’

It seemed to help Madeleine. His shoulders relaxed, though the sadness of his eyes did not lessen. ‘I am glad. I would not want any man condemned for something he did not do.’

Javert watched him then, as he always did. Madeleine seemed oblivious to the gaze. In the end, he said, ‘all base men are guilty of something. Whether they admit it or not, and no matter how they hide it, they all want something.’

So, perhaps that was how it happened. The air had changed, he remembered that. But he had excused himself, and left, and noticed that at the end of a month, Madeleine came out of mourning. A month later, he was appointed mayor. With it, a deepening of suspicion, because he remembered the tales of how the man would not be swayed last time it was offered. Even that he had been awarded the Legion of Honour, but had refused it – which seemed, to him, an ungrateful, unworthy act. If someone is going to raise society, they should rise with it. It was the order of things. That this man, this man in particular, would choose to stay so unseen…

Their first meeting after he took his official post. He had presented himself, and bowed low. ‘Monsieur le Maire.’

‘There is no need, Javert. We have known each other a while.’

‘And now I serve you, Monsieur. Take of me what you will.’

The serene surface rippled. Javert was not sure if he was pleased; he knew only that the depths were stirring. And that was what he wanted, was it not?

 

*

 

‘Do you have the time?’

‘Your clock says midnight, Monsieur.’

‘Ah, yes.’ The paper is returned to the stack on the desk. All is as it should be. He waits to be dismissed. But Madeleine is not looking at him, and he cannot leave until he does. ‘Javert-‘

‘-yes?’

Madeleine’s calm is not as absolute as usual. He clearly wants to speak; clearly does not know how. It is uncomfortable, and never more so when the man steps close all of a sudden. Javert sucks in a breath, and the air between them disappears. ‘Why are you doing this?’

Ah. Yes, it is a fair question. He has asked it of himself many times. The answer was always clear; that this man is pious, and good, and lives in solitude. If not for _this_ reason, then there must be something else. So if he did not succumb to advances – and Javert holds no illusion about his own appearance, but surely such a solitary man would not care of such things – then there must be something else.

But he did succumb, before barely any advance were made. So maybe it is just that. Maybe he prays for deliverance in church now. And forgiveness, one would hope. One can hardly force morality on his workforce the way he does, and then feel no shame for the acts he commits here, with him.

‘You are the mayor,’ is what he says. ‘I am yours to command.’

Madeleine comes close to looking frustrated. ‘No one should be commanded to do this, and I will never say you must. If you did not seem to enjoy it, I would never-‘

‘If you think I enjoy it, why the question, monsieur?’

He must take climax as evidence of enjoyment, and not a purely physical response. He must not consider that this act, this debased, foul thing, allows him to think of something more pure. A girl, an opened dress. Did she ever actually do that? No, he does not think so. He is sure he would recall.

‘You do not speak. You make no sound.’

‘Neither do you, monsieur. Or, barely any.’

Again, he wonders what the man thinks of. Women, too? But he does not want this conversation. They never talk of this. It is not proper that they should.

‘I should not do it,’ Madeleine says, and looks to the floor between them.

‘Then why do you?’

A pause. It is long, filled with a heavy silence, as if the room also wishes to know. And then, a smile. A single, brief touch to his side, if one that seems a little reluctant to slide away. ‘I like to keep you close, Javert.’

It is an answer, and not. Javert picks up his hat from the desk, and straightens, and puts it under his arm. Madeleine steps back. ‘I will remain so. Have no fear.’

‘Oh, indeed.’ The man turns away, looks to the fire. ‘Good evening, Inspector.’

‘Good evening, Monsieur le Maire.’

 

 

He walks deserted streets, slipping under the gas lamps like a dog through beams of moonlight. His thoughts after these evenings are never easy, and never loud. A quiet storm that he observes from the safety of a harbour wall. The waves may batter the rock below, but they will never rise high enough to touch him.

The mayor likes to keep him close. It is not the same as intimate. It may be, in fact, a simple matter of diversion. But if the man thinks he will look no deeper because he is blinded by a fog of lust, he will be sorely disappointed. That is never in doubt. And as for the strange conversation of this evening, and that kiss – perhaps just an attempt to draw him deeper into a cloud of obscurity. Well, he will not be his dupe.

From nowhere: Toulon. No, not from nowhere; he thinks of the place in relation to the mayor, and not just because it is where his mind goes when he is being taken. Do the questions of tonight belong there? He is sure no prisoner would kiss him, and tell him he will not be forced. The opposite is more likely. He must consider this, and add it to the mental papers he surrounds the man with, and see what may come of it.

But not tonight. He has to stifle a yawn as he reaches his rooms. Tomorrow will be another long day, another step on the road towards uncovering this truth. In the meantime, he will allow the thoughts an evening with the mayor brings: that he is sure he used to dream of women, once. But that is over, and he is glad. Working for justice – however he  must do so – hands him a shield that will never break, and he is the better a man for it.

 

 


End file.
